


potentially wild

by Nadler



Series: potential verse [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Psychic Abilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 11:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13189380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadler/pseuds/Nadler
Summary: More psychic bonds, now feat. Granlund and Koivu.





	potentially wild

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sleeperservice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeperservice/gifts).



> surprise! <3

When Mikael goes in for his draft interviews, there's not many teams who ask. Three or four do. It's through two layers of interpretation, but the question is clear: _Is being a potential a problem on the ice?_

Mikael shakes his head no, and while hockey is an entity to itself and full of people who will scrape and want to use up everything you have, talking about being a potential is still not something a team does very much. It's not quite reading minds. It's not reading emotions better than anyone else; being a potential _is_ , and Mikael can't explain that in Finnish, nevermind in a way that gets his point across in English. 

He can't read their minds, as much as he wants to. He wants to know what the men think about him, and who wants him for real, so that he can start thinking about the future. They ask about his hockey, and who he models his game after, and where his game is. Those are the questions that he can take, but it simmers. 

 

The Wild take him ninth, early, and Mikael knows he was going to go early, but this is still an occasion. He lets his mom hug him with a veracity that he can almost feel. 

 

There are more potentials than anyone likes to talk about, and it's not considered kind to tell anyone that they're a potential even if they are, especially since there are some that are ordinary, completely normal, who never wake up with more colors behind their eyelids than anyone can imagine. It takes a potential to find others, but the ones who can't even project a vague feeling without physical contact aren't the ones that have to take the extra classes. 

In Finland, there are extra classes and a ranking threshold for potentials. Mikael goes to his first one at seven years old, and to be honest, he doesn't remember anything beyond that there were twelve people in his class, all his age, from around the city. They left when someone told them they didn't need anymore schooling. 

By fourteen, he was the only one left, and it dug into his travel time to get to hockey practice. 

 

No one tells him that Mikko Koivu is a potential. No one has to.

Mikael walks into practice for the national team--for his first game at the men's tournament, holy shit, he's playing for real, with the big boys, though he's been playing against older opponents for years, this feels different, the weight of Finland's white and blue on his shoulders, somehow heavier than the last year. Mikko Koivu is there; he's the captain, of course he's there. But Mikael notices him in his mind's eye first, and then he sees Koivu afterwards, where he can link the mental space with the physical, and _he knows_. 

He wonders what Koivu's like, up close where their energies can almost touch, like almost brushing fingers with a stranger. Mikael wonders how strong Koivu is in comparison to Mikael, so he tries to see, tries to see the edges where he and the rest of reality meet. And then Mikael remembers who he is and where he is, and he draws back the mental feelers, hoping that Koivu won't say anything, if he's noticed. 

Koivu turns and nods at Mikael, and Mikael can feel his own eyes widen, his throat tighten, and a small flush of embarrassment rise. He's learned better to control himself than that, to keep potential mental equivalent of his voice down. 

 

Everyone keeps talking about Mikael's goal, but that's not what he wants. Sometimes Mikael thinks someone else, someone who wants the attention should have it, would give people who keep popping into his everyday life what they want. He doesn't. 

What he wants, is, well. They win. 

They win gold. It's a beautiful feeling, and he can't help but project it, not at least when everyone else in the arena is definitely feeling the same thing. He can't compose himself to line up, it seems like, to wait for the medals and the speechs. 

They won. 

They won, and it's a great feeling. Mikael basks in a knot of feeling somewhere, and he can pick at his teammates around him, and oh no, he realizes, he's been sending out feelers into Koivu's space again. The captain's space. _His_ captain's space, once Mikael gets his shit together and comes to the NHL. 

_It's alright_ he gets, and it's so clear, like water-on-sand, and well, if he says it is. It's a small blunder, and Mikael only hopes someone would be as patient as that when he blunders into their personal mindbubble. 

Mikael collects himself slightly as they rustle around, looking at the trophy, and there's small blips in his mental landscape, but he only thinks that's because he's putting the walls and locks back on; and then, someone starts thumping at his shoulder, and he turns around, and--

Well, it's Mikko Koivu behind him. He radiates emotion, like he usually doesn't; he's a potential in control of his output. Mikael feels the blips again, more of a rap on a window, and Koivu raises his arms. They hug, and Mikael opens his mental door, and he can feel Mikko step in after wiping off his feet outside. It should feel foreign, alien, but all he can really say is that it feels like someone coming home. 

It's not his feeling, but surely it's close enough. 

The hug ends. Mikael goes back to trying to bite his medal. He gets a flashed of puzzled disapproval, judging by the look on Mikko's face, a sound-of-rain-crash-licorice, and he thinks he can almost hear him go _That's bad for your teeth_. 

It shouldn't matter, they just won a medal. Mikael's teeth can wait for one night. 

Mikael smiles, and then the rest of the world floods in.

 

They spend a lot of time that summer doing interviews. Mikko puts a hand on Mikael's shoulder and makes the mental equivalent of a pained look. 

Mikael doesn't think Mikko's said more than a dozen words to him aloud after Mikael left his mental doors down. 

Mikko pauses in the middle of his sentence, makes a face that's almost thinking, and then he starts a new one. There's this little green-blue-pulse-of-air in the space between them, and Mikael knows it's the same thing Mikko projects when he said, "Maybe, Mikke," when Mikael asked him a stupid question that he didn't want to answer, and he manages to stay inscrutable. 

Mikael shakes his head. Mikko's done with his question, and he has to listen to what the reporter asks him. Maybe he should smile for her camera. 

_Maybe, Mikke,_ Mikko sends again. 

 

They also spend perhaps too much time celebrating, as they make the round and outlets. They won a medal. They're allowed to celebrate. 

Sometimes, Mikael can't feel like he can go buy shitty fastfood without someone snapping a picture of it, but that's the price of fame, probably. And it'll fade. Probably. But it also means that he doesn't really go out to bars to celebrate, not alone, but in groups, it's fine. 

Sometimes, people actually think that Mikko is a responsible captain and watches out for Mikael. 

_Do you need me to? You're capable enough_ and Mikael doesn't know if he could, really, but he'd try, and Mikael's smarter than to get involved in the really stupid stuff anyway. 

That probably answers, it, actually. He might get a mental equivalent of a pat on the head, but he's kind of busy trying a new concoction one of his HIFK buddies made up, at least four types of liquers and a fruit, he thinks. 

It's good but it's strong. The kind of strong that he doesn't really want to feel, not when Mikko is here in a sweater that almost fits and that is both a problem because it's almost ugly and he might say something stupid, like it's hot inside and why doesn't he take it off--and _honestly, it's stupid_ , but he also can't think but wonder if he's even buttoned whatever that stupid collar sticking out of it must be attached to, or if he's just let soft knit touch toned skin. His thoughts circle around that for a while. 

There's a little note of alarm when Mikael gets back to the table because Mikko is his ride, or was, anyway, before they started drinking, and he swallows a lump in his throat; he can tell when he's been leaky, and that was one of it. He desperately looks around for an exit and he takes it--fleeing. 

_Maybe, Mikke,_ Mikko sends and Mikael wonders how far he could actually hear him from, how strong this connection is; he's got to be at least halfway to the bathroom. The more curious thing is that the message is no different than any of the other times Mikko's said that, ever. _Maybe I even think you're cute._

He actually is only about five steps away, and it feels like a moot point, and well, he feels like he has to be closer, to make sure he heard correctly. 

And well, that's. That's a thing. Mikael looks up, but Mikko's looking away, but he's not moving away, and so Mikael just settles in the feelings he knows he's leaking, enough to be palpable, and most of all, it's relief. 

Mikael slumps against Mikko in a way that he can blame on being drunk, if needed. Mikko doesn't shy away, just a hand on Mikael's shoulder, like usual. 

_If we go home,_ and Mikael isn't sure if he's coherent or not, but Mikko's looking at him like he can hear him, like he's paying attention, not a intense stare to make him go away. And maybe it's the alcohol, but Mikael's feeling brave. _Would you kiss me?_

_Maybe, Mikke_ and it's fond, behind the usual fog. Mikael thinks it might be the new refrain of his life, but he's honestly fine with this, even if this is where it gets him. 

And he does, so it all works out.


End file.
